


What colour is death?

by Selena_Guardi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drugs, F/M, Loads of Angst, Pain, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selena_Guardi/pseuds/Selena_Guardi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been kidnapped. He is in pain. He is alone. But at least his friends are safe. Or are they? When torturing his body isn't good enough anymore Moriarty starts pulling apart Sherlock's mind... and heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not for the light hearted. It is intended to hurt. And for those who might have come across some of my angst before you know that I'm not joking. Read at your own risk. You have been warned. And now enjoy :)

“I don't know if you can hear me.

But...

 

But if you can, I just need you to know that...

 

You see the world as...

For you the world is full of pain and hurt and … and it's probably true. You're probably right. Who am I to tell you otherwise? You have seen it all. The darkest moments of life, of humanity. And you probably don't think there's anything else. It's just black and maybe... one million shades of grey, it's all deceit and darkness. At least that's what I think **you** think. But there's so much more to life. So much more to live for.

 

I know you've been in a dark place lately. And I wish I would have been there. Been there when you needed me. Needed **someone**. Maybe this... wouldn't have happened.

Who knows.

 

But I'm here now. And I need you to know that I always will. So you need to hold on. For me. For life. For all the other colours you can't see right now because it's all just black and grey in your head. But there is light out there, and sunshine. Life is so much more. It shines and sparkles, it glows. Hell, it's full of reds and blues and yellows.

And

so

much

more.

 

God, I don't even know what I'm trying to say.

 

But...

 

Hold on, okay?”


	2. White

White searing pain. So strong it makes his stomach churn and revolt. He's willing himself not to faint, to not let this bright white light that is dancing in front of his eyes give way to black. He needs to remain conscious. He isn't even sure what for. But he knows that staying in the here and now is his only task at the moment and so he concentrates all his remaining will power on that one thing: stay conscious. Simple as that.

He can't locate the pain anymore either. Maybe it's another fingernail being pulled out, maybe it's a cut just beneath his ribs, maybe it's a cigarette burn on his chest. He has lost track and with all the pain surging through his body it really is impossible to keep up. Mapping injuries won't help him now anyway, so why bother. The scars will tell the tale soon enough. That is, if he gets out of this room alive. A fact he is becoming more and more doubtful about with every passing minute. Or hour? Or maybe even day? Time has lost its meaning in the windowless confinement of his concrete cell. Who knows where days start and end, drifting in and out of consciousness, half starved, strapped to this cold metal chair.

Another pang of pain. He clenches his jaw, his stomach muscles tense up while he is trying to control the urge to empty the last remains of whatever is in his stomach onto the floor. Probably just bile and water. He hasn't eaten for days. Or for as long as he has been held captive in this hell. He suppresses a scream. Screaming doesn't help, he is probably in the middle of nowhere far away from anyone who would be able to help. And he doesn't want to give his torturer the satisfaction of seeing him weak. So he bites his lip, swallowing the pain, pressing his eyes shut while another stab to his stomach leaves a deep cut. He can feel the blood. It's warm and sticky, slowly making its way down his skin. He can hear it drip onto the floor. Opening his eyes slightly he watches it form a little pool by his feet. Dark shiny red. Then he is hit by another blow, this time across his head. Cold metal collides with his face, he feels dizzy, the room is swimming. The force of the impact has shifted his balance, he threatens to tip over with the chair. Still blinking away the white dots, he can see himself tilt sideways, the room suddenly turning, until his jaw connects with the concrete floor. With his hands and feet tied to the chair there was no way to soften his fall, no way of catching himself. He lets out a low groan.

 

“The great detective,” snarls the man towering over him, “not so grand now, mh?”

 

Sherlock coughs, his mouth tastes metallic. His right eye is swollen shut by now, his ears are ringing. He tries to focus as he watches the man's shoes stepping over the puddle of blood on the floor and slowly walking up to him.

 

“What a pile of shit,” the man laughs.

 

He sees the man raise his foot, he sees the cruel smile on his face. He knows what's coming, he knows what to expect. And still he can't prepare himself for the pure pain that suddenly seizes his body as the heel of the man's boot is buried deep in his stomach. Once again his vision turns bright white, the scream that he can't hold down any longer escaping his lips but it's less powerful than he would have thought. Its sound is small, pathetic, a whimper at most. Hoarse, broken. The next kick is nearly a relief as the man aims for Sherlock's head and suddenly the bright white light is gone giving way to complete darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is incredibly short. All the chapters will vary in length and some will be much longer.


End file.
